


a desire to move forward and back

by addandsubtract



Series: in the after [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been twelve months. He has letters – stacks of them – in his backpack, and little else of worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a desire to move forward and back

**Author's Note:**

> started [in this thread](http://figletofvenice.livejournal.com/313581.html?thread=3206381#t3206381) when [denialgreen](http://denialgreen.livejournal.com) gave me the prompt "brad/walt - things you can't fix." this is an expanded scene within the ficbits that followed. for [denialgreen](http://denialgreen.livejournal.com), who is entirely at fault. ♥

Walt is upstairs when Brad lets himself in. He can hear the shower running, the groan of the water pipes above his head. He closes the door behind him and leans against it for just a moment. It’s been twelve months. He has letters – stacks of them – in his backpack, and little else of worth.

He can still feel the sand and road dust underneath his fingernails, in the creases at the corner of his eyes and the bend of his elbows and knees, even though he’s been in transit for long enough to get a real shower and chow. He knows, from experience, that the feeling won’t go away for another few weeks.

He toes off his shoes and takes the steps two at a time. He can smell the shower – steam and soap and Walt’s shampoo – from the hallway. He stands in the hall, listening to Walt move around in the shower, the pounding of the water, the stomp of his feet. Brad got letters and letters from him, half of them detached and cursory, the news from their families, the repairs he’s made to the house, the new responsibilities at the bakery. The others Brad had read until the oil from his fingers turned the paper soft, every, _I miss you, I know how stupid that sounds_ , and every, _The dreams are keeping me awake again,_ and every, _I’m going to lick the dust off of your skin when you come home. Tell me you’re coming home_. The guys in his team tried to tease him for the number of letters he got – a few at a time, more often than not – but Brad has never felt like he had anything to prove to them.

And now he’s standing outside the bathroom, his fingers clasped around the doorknob. He should have told Walt he was on his way home. He pushes the door open.

“Walt?” It isn’t a question, exactly, but the bathroom is full of steam, the tiles on the floor slick with perspiration. Walt still has his recon instincts intact, and Brad doesn’t want to test him, yet. He takes a step inside, feet soft on the slippery floor.

Walt yanks the curtain so fast that two of the rings fly off and fall to the tiles with a soft tinkling. He’s wide-eyed and pale, skin flushed from the heat. Brad’s eyes track down his body, the bruises on his arms and torso, where he’s thrashed out of bed or off of the couch. He’s still muscular, toned and slippery and naked.

“Brad?” he asks, and tilts his head like he’s wondering if he’s hallucinating, and Brad keeps his face even.

“I’m home,” he says, and takes another step closer. Walt’s eyes flick over his mouth, his tanned skin, his simple t-shirt.

“For how long?” Walt asks, and Brad has to shrug, because he doesn’t know.

Walt’s face settles into something like defiance, but not far away from determination, either, and he reaches out and wraps his fist in Brad’s t-shirt, hauling him closer. Brad is caught off-guard, and he stumbles a little, but doesn’t try to resist. With the curtain pulled open, the water is getting all over the floor. It hits Brad’s t-shirt and jeans, and then Walt is wrapping his other hand around the back of Brad’s neck and pulling him down. Walt’s mouth is warm, and he pulls Brad over the lip of the tub and into the shower. Brad doesn’t mind the water soaking through his clothes, all along his right side, because Walt is pressing his body against Brad’s, all slick, naked skin and desperation.

“A year is a fucking long time, Brad,” Walt says, half into Brad’s mouth and half against his cheek, and, privately, Brad agrees.

“I missed you,” Brad says. It’s not something he can imagine saying to anyone else. It’s not something he ever thought he’d feel. Walt’s got dark circles under his eyes and no scars to show the trauma he deals with on a daily basis, and Brad doesn’t want anyone else.

Walt laughs, for real, and it lances through Brad like a gunshot. He slides his hand down Walt’s back, the notches in his spine, and tries to forget the smell of the dust and the blood and the acrid gunpowder that settled into his fatigues on day one and never washed out.

“You better have,” Walt says, and Brad’s shampoo is on the lip of the tub next to Walt’s, and his toothbrush is still in the cup next to the sink, and nothing is static, but Brad is relatively certain that this is permanent. The way that the Corps is, the way that sings in his blood. Walt’s body is insistent against his, and Brad want to ask for the story behind every bruise that he missed, and he wants to know how bad the dreams are, and if Walt has made a decision about therapy, but this is more important right now.

“Bed,” he says, and pulls away long enough to tug his wet shirt over his head and throw it onto the floor with a wet slap. Walt’s eyes follow the lines of his body, fingers sliding into the belt loops on his jeans. Everything else can fucking wait.


End file.
